


It's not only blood that whiskey thins

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries to cope with a broken wall. Dean looks after his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not only blood that whiskey thins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spnspringfling challenge, for velvetsun.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters in this story. Supernatural and all its characters are property of Eric Kripke and I make no money from these writings.

It's not only blood that whiskey thins

 

Dean wakes up to an empty room.

He's lying on his stomach and when he opens his eyes, Sam's bed is empty. There's a dent on the cheap mattress where he'd been and the scratchy blanket and sheets are lumped together at the foot of the bed.

Dean pushes himself up, elbows digging into the bed and ignores the springs that prod him in the ribs and stomach. It's what you get in cheap ass motels and he's had plenty of time to get used to them. Doesn't mean it doesn't leave him peeved though.

The whole room is empty and there's no noise coming from the bathroom. Everything else is turned off. He rubs a hand over his face, trying to get rid of the sticky sleep clinging to the corner of his eyes. His mouth is dry as hell too. He sits up.

He becomes aware of the steady beat of the rain outside but the curtains are drawn closed. He can hear the patter of it on the window.

Sam's bag is in front of the bed and his laptop is still on the table. Dean scrubs the heel of his hand over his nose, the smell of stale smoke tickling and irritating as hell. There's the lingering touch of air spray, cheap and thin, but it isn't enough to get rid of the cigarette smell. It's had years to soak into the walls and he doubts there's any chance of getting it out.

Dean picks up his phone, flips it open. The screen lights up and he winces as the electric blue of it hits him right in the eyes.

3.07AM.

"Sam," he grounds out, voice hoarse and coated with exhaustion.

They'd only taken time to fix the Impala, then they'd been on the move and they hadn't stopped since. Bobby had gone underground for a while too.

Not that it mattered. It wouldn't take much for them to be found. Angels can still get into their dreams. Although he isn't sure if that applies anymore.

Dean shakes his head and flips the phone shut. Now isn't the time to think about it.

He stands up and walks round to the other side to the poor bastard of an armchair sitting there. Someone had hacked at its seat and tufts of stuffing stick out, obscenely white against the red of the chair. His jeans are over the arm and he pulls them off, tugs them on.

A glance at the bedside table shows him the empty spot where the Impala's keys were.

Dean finishes getting dressed, mouth cracking wide open on a yawn as he tugs on his jacket and makes sure he has the room key on him before he walks to the door.

The cool smell of rain wafts into the room as he peers out.

The rain is thick, battering the ground of the parking lot outside the motel rooms. The ground's been turned into a pool of red brown, reflecting the flickering light of the motel sign, a weak red M that's mirrored on the ground. Through it Dean can see the Impala still where he'd parked it earlier about six doors down from their room. He can't see through the rain well enough but he can make out a dark bulk in the driver's seat. The sight of it makes his shoulders relax, the unease of waking up to no Sam, easing off.

He steps outside and pulls the door closed behind him.

His boots are quiet thuds on the walk, accompanied only by the rain.

Despite the fact that the nights should be burning up, they've been having low temperatures. Now this. Dean hitches up the collar of his jacket and glances up at the sky with a frown. Yeah. Sam's gonna be doing the breakfast run tomorrow morning for this.

Shaking his head, he braces himself and steps out into the downpour, moving quickly over to the car door. The rain stings his face hard enough that he lifts an arm to shield himself, ducks his head into the crook of it. It slips down the back of his neck, cool drops rolling inside.

He grabs for the door, jerks it open and mutters a curse as he slips inside, shutting the door fast. He wipes at the water on his face as he turns to look at Sam.

Sam's got his eyes closed. There's a bottle of whiskey—a third of it gone—resting on his upper thigh, massive hand curled around the neck of it and keeping it in place.

Dean has the taste of rain in his mouth and he licks at the drops as they drip from his cheek onto his lips. He leans back in the seat, grimacing at how the seats are getting wet. Sam doesn't move.

The sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car fills the quiet.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Nope," Sam says, eyes still closed. The word is drawn out; an almost playful curve to the vowel that tells Dean that third of whiskey went down Sam's throat.

"Huh." He nods at the bottle even though Sam can't see him. "That helping any?"

Sam shrugs a shoulder.

"You gonna share?"

Sam's opens his eyes and looks at Dean. There's a few seconds delay in the time it takes him to focus properly. Then Sam's mouth twists into a small frown and he lifts his head. His eyes are shadowed but hints of forest green creep through. Then he's squeezing his eyes shut again, wincing. He presses a hand to his head, straightening away from his seat.

The whiskey sloshes inside the bottle as it's dislodged, a few amber drops escaping to land on Sam's hand. They slip down the slope of his thumb. When he relaxes back into the seat, he passes the bottle over and Dean takes it.

"That bad." It's not a question, it doesn't have to be. Dean stares at the top of the bottle but doesn't make any move to drink from it. He glances over at Sam. "You think this is gonna help?"

Sam sighs and looks out the window. Dean wonders if he can see much through the rain streaming down the glass."You suggested it," Sam says.

"Yeah, well. I think we both know I'm not always right."

Sam's watching the little veins the water is drawing on the glass, little snakes writhing in time to the beat of the rain. "Do you think Cas is doing this?"

Dean's hand tightens on the bottle and he thinks, fuck this. He's gripping the bottle tight, too tight, and he wonders if it'll shatter in his hand even as he puts it to his mouth. He swallows two mouthfuls, feels the soothing burn of it stinging the walls of his throat. When he pulls it away Sam is watching him.

"Not Cas anymore."

Sam doesn't reply to that but he nods, slow, like Dean's words are taking too long to reach him. Then Sam sighs and its heavy, weighed down with too much. He turns his face away and Dean feels his throat tighten up, feels like he should be doing something to take that weight away. It doesn't matter that he knows Sam can make his own decisions, deal with crap on his own. The protective instinct is always there, engraved into bone and Dean can't scrub it out. He doesn't want to either.

He sees the gleam of the bottle lid next to Sam's foot and he reaches over, picks it up between his forefingers. He screws it back on; aware that Sam's attention is back on him.

"Come on. Let's get back inside, get some sleep. We're back on the road in the morning."

Sam nods.

Dean waits but when Sam just leans his head back and closes his eyes; he breathes out a curse and tucks the bottle out of sight from the windows. He tugs the lapels of his jacket back up and aims one ugly look at the rain still coming down before moving quickly.

He gets out and rounds the car, going over to Sam and opening his door. The rain's getting in his eyes, running down his face and slipping into his mouth as he reaches into grab one of Sam's arms and pull it around his shoulders.

Sam goes along with it, comfortable with the physical closeness they don't usually share. Always been a clingy drunk. He lets his head drop against Dean's as he gets his feet under him.

Dean stops long enough to shut and lock the car, Sam a steady press against his side and they both make their way back. The top half of his t-shirt is slowly getting soaked through and the front of it is plastered to his chest. Sam curls in tighter around him, steps unsteady, like a huge toddler suddenly finding themselves six feet tall and not knowing how to balance out all those extra inches.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

They're almost beneath to the walk now and Dean spits out the rain getting in his mouth. Sam's hair is wet and the rain is plastering it to Dean's temple. A few strands catch in Dean's stubble too. He grunts, hefts the weight of Sam's arm on his shoulder and gets a steadier grip on him, wrapping his arm around his waist.

"I met him."

"Who?"

"The other Sam. Me, in Hell."

Dean tries to get a look at Sam's face but Sam's head is still pressed to his and all he manages to do is brush his nose across Sam's cheek. He jerks back, startled at the unexpected intimacy of it.

"He said I could stay. Said I could find Jess." Sam stops and Dean stops with him. They're just two steps away from their door. Sam's gaze is fixed on the ground and there's rain dripping off of the line of his jaw, his nose. His hair is a mess, stuck to his forehead and cheeks and the sides of his neck. His arm curls tighter around Dean, bringing him closer.

The oxygen feels like its backing up in Dean's lungs and there's a pressure wrapping around his ribs. He doesn't know what to do with it.

Sam shifts around him until both his arms are wrapped around Dean, pulling him in tight.

"I'm not leaving you alone, Dean."

Dean swallows, closes his eyes, feels the rain tapping on the back of his eyelids. He lifts his hand, ignores the slight tremble that barely materializes before he has it back under control. He curves his fingers around the back of Sam's head, closes his other arm around his back.

"Yeah, okay Sammy."

"No, Dean." Sam pulls away and then he's got his hands on Dean's face, keeping Dean in place.

Dean blinks away the rain and in between one blink and the next Sam's forehead is pressed to his, his fingers are hard on his cheekbones. His breath is hot on Dean's face.

Dean wraps patient hands around Sam's, makes to pull them away but he freezes when Sam swipes a thumb over his bottom lip, like he's trying to rub away the wetness. And then Sam leaves his thumb there, resting at the corner of Dean's mouth.

"Not leaving you alone," Sam says again.

Dean has to clear his throat, has to ignore the sting he feels burning just at the back of his eyes. "I know, man. I know." And it's odd, but he does know.

Sam breathes out, his eyes closing and they're close enough that Dean feels the brush of Sam's eyelashes against the bridge of his nose as Sam rubs his forehead across Dean's, face twisting to one side.

And then Sam tips it down. "M'not Dean, m'not," this time it's just a murmur and his hands slide down to Dean's neck, thumbs running along the line of his jaw.

He puts his mouth right on Dean's, sloppy before he presses harder, head tilting and mouth slanting over Dean's. He sweeps his tongue over the seam of Dean's lips, and Dean's hands are tight manacles on Sam's wrists. Sam doesn't seem to notice. He licks into Dean's mouth and crowds in closer and it's a slick slide of tongues for a split second as Dean falls under the shock of it, lips turning pliant under Sam's.

Then Dean's turning his face away—feels the hot swathe of Sam's tongue brush over the corner of his mouth—and uses his grip to ease Sam back a step. "Sam."

Sam just looks at him, little drops of rain clinging to the tips of his eyelashes, eyes still soft from the whiskey.

Dean's heart feels like it's taking up too much space, each beat is a dull throb that he feels in his throat.

"Let's go inside so you can sleep this off."

Sam nods, docile. He's still staring at Dean like that's all he needs right now.

So Dean leads him in, taking care to open the door and take him through, to make sure Sam loses the wet clothes and puts on something dry before shoving him into bed.

Once Sam is finally down and out, Dean stands over him, staring down at him with his hands on his hips. Any desire to sleep too is gone, chased away by the clench in his abdomen that has nothing to do with disgust.

Dean rubs at his mouth. He doesn't know if the dry sweet taste of the whiskey is from Sam or from the drink itself. But the velvet rough of another tongue in his mouth lingers and he doesn't know what to do with it. Except that he can feels the lick of warmth replacing that initial tightness.

Sam twists on the bed, flops onto his stomach and goes still.

Dean turns around and heads right back to the door. He knows where the next two thirds of that whiskey are gonna go.

He opens the door and steps back out into the rain.


End file.
